This is where the pile of crows
left their feathers.
This is a certainty.
Poppies cluster in explosive bundles among
the rocky dirt near the patio, petals
browning in the blast of sun.
In the sky
are migratory patterns,
where there are no longer crows just the memory
of crows launched against cloud & air & eye.
I am at rest, the pinwheels turning desert air
as their plastic stalks shoot up from gravel. Slowly,
sunlight moves across its parabolic bow
and the bats begin their erratic dog fights
with the insects in the air.
Fleshy wings beating, reminding me
to turn around.